


if i lift my fingers to my mouth (can i spit myself out)

by dunkindonts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (like super mild I just want to make sure no one is surprised), Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2425835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunkindonts/pseuds/dunkindonts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more arterial red that stains his hands, his face as he wipes his knuckles across his cheek, the longer the high will last. The longer the wait before he needs to do it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i lift my fingers to my mouth (can i spit myself out)

**Author's Note:**

> very short and stream of consciousness
> 
> title is from [Host // Kat Sinclair](https://soundcloud.com/katsinclair/host-demo)

It doesn't feel how Dean imagines possession would feel. Possession is thick black smoke, pouring into your mouth and coating the sides of your throat, filling your lungs with its disease. Possession is being taken over, being pushed away from the controls and forced to watch as your body is used against you. You cannot be blamed for possession.

Dean can only blame himself for this.

It was his choices that brought him here, to this plane almost completely devoid of sensory details. This place where no matter how many shots he knocks back, no matter how many quick fucks he has in dirty bathrooms and shady motel rooms, nothing can satisfy him.

The Mark on his arm screams for blood. The only rush he can get is ripping into someone or some _thing_ and pulling them apart bit by bit. The more arterial red that stains his hands, his face as he wipes his knuckles across his cheek, the longer the high will last. The longer the wait before he needs to do it again.

There’s hellfire racing through his veins, fueled by the scar on his arm, flames only stoked higher by the joy he feels from the kill. It burns under his skin, spreads through his limbs, smolders in the pit that used to hold his heart. There’s not much there now, not much of anything left inside him.

He’s a stack of charred bones, held together by thin trails of choking smoke and the last hopes of Crowley for a knight. He’s not strong in the way he should be. He may be able to cut through every play demon Crowley sends his way like paper, but he doesn't feel strong. A stray breeze might knock him over, reduce him to a pile of ash and the blood soaked jawbone of an ass.

In a different life, he may have been concerned with how little that idea bothers him.

Now, he watches over everything with a black film over his eyes, detaching himself ever further. The problem with these bars, these sketchy back alleys and unfamiliar cars, is that they are filled with humans. All they do is remind him of what he used to be, and how bad he was at it.

Now he’s burning rage and bloodlust, whittled down and settled into his blackened bones. He’s a twisted soul pounded into a familiar face, so he’ll be able to smile at his brother and his angel before his eyes flick to black. He’s gashes that won’t heal and bruises that won’t fade and bones that will keep on breaking because he’s told himself he deserves this and he believes it to the very center of his black, black core.

How much easier it would be, he thinks, if he was only possessed. Or if he was only putrid smoke, smelling of sulfur and darkening the skies, if he was only the pollution and not the source. Not the burning fires of hell itself, not the spark at the center of the damn inferno. If only he could open his mouth and let the smoke out into the sky.

But it’s different. There’s a scar on his arm woven deep into his skin, poisoning his bloodstream and picking away at what little soul he has left, if there was ever much there to begin with.

He can only blame himself for this.


End file.
